“Now that you met me, how’s that working out for you?”
Cassie kissed him and whispered in his ear, “It’s a smashing success.”
After a while, she cleared her throat. “I’m going to do something for which the entire world would label me as a daft idiot.”
“Run away with me?” he asked.
“Besides that.”
“Okay.”
“I’m going to give you the codes to have access to those banks. One is in Belize—I told you that, and the other is in the Caymans.”
“Now I know you are off your rocker. I’m leaving. It would be best if you ran back to England.”
“No, Mike.”
“I will go to Africa first and try to contact you in a year.”
She took his chin in her hand. “NO! We are together. If we are ever safe, will you put that ring on my finger?”
“I would have done it before you told me about the banks.”
“And now?” she glared at him.
“Yes.”
“Alright, mister. If anything happens to me, then you have access to that money.”
“This topic is upsetting, Cassie. I’ve been around big money for a good chunk of my life. It makes me anxious. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“My money is not drug money. It’s legal, and we can use it to get out of here and stay safe. That seems like a good idea to me. And I want you to understand something; if we’re smart, we can maybe go live like regular people in New Zealand who happen to have a lot of money in the bank. My parents knew that I was the oddball in the family. Now tell me. How much do we need to get out of here without sleeping in the belly of a leaky freighter?”
Chapter 14
“The search is off,” Fettucini grumbled to her boss in rapid, frustrated Italian. “We’ve got nothing on the killer either.”
“You’re making me crazy. Claire Clemp, the widow, is not a murderer. Boats sink; it isn’t the woman.”
“Larosa, you are in denial. Think about this: No distress call. No debris. How often do small boats go down that fast?”
“We’re done. The coast guard said there’s no point in searching. That means there’s nothing more that we can do. You checked the mileage on her rental car, and you checked the videotapes on the highway. If there was evidence slapping me in the face, then I would go after Mrs. Clemp like a lion.”
The sergeant rapped her knuckles on the desk in their temporary Syracusa office. “So, we wave bye-bye, and she goes back to New York and collects her big paycheck.”
“She’s a widow. Let it go. Let her go. We have other cases. Done, finito—let’s go have some lunch. We’ll put it on your expense account.”
*
Mike laid things out for Augustino. Not minute details, but he told the man that he and Cassie had to disappear.
“I’m understanding your problem, Bill,” said the junkyard owner, who more and more looked to be the most connected man in southern Italy. “You’ve got some people chasing you. So, I help you.”
“We want to get out of Italy, but to where?”
“Morocco is your best way.”
“How?” asked Casper.
“Boat to Tunisia.”
Cassie and Mike sat on an overstuffed sofa. Cassie’s head was aching, and she massaged her temples, attempting to relieve a little stress. “Mr. Augustino, that is maybe 300 miles by sea. I’ve been studying the map.”
“Yes, you take a boat. Not a little boat. First you take little boat, and then you go from in the sea—you jump onto bigger boat. When you get to Tunisia, you get small plane to take you to Morroco. If airports are too much security, then you have to take another boat all the way.”
Mike stood up and paced. He was getting wound up at the thought of having to fumble their way through North Africa to reach Morocco—and then where? “There has to be a way we can fly. Can we fly from here?”
“No. Impossible. Not without stopping, and I only know someone in the port of Tunis.”
“Dammit! What if I could get an Italian passport?”
“How much money do you have?” asked Augustino.
“How much do I need?”
“For passport Italiano—” the plump businessman looked like he was crunching numbers in his head. “$50,000 can get you a good, clean name, but there is one problem, you are not Italiano. You no speak. If they question your passport, then you will say what?”
“I tell them that my parents took me to America when I was a baby.”
“Then they ask to see your American passport. Do you have one?”
“No.”
Cassie was silently observing the back and forth exchange between them and interjected, “Both of you listen. How much would it cost to get a British Passport?”
Dead silence.
“That is a more work one. I have to make a phone call.” He picked up the phone and dialed. After a couple of minutes of banter in Italian, he hung up and turned to Mike. “You don’t have that much.”
“How much?” asked Cassie.
“100,000 U.K. pounds.”
“How do we know that it’s good?” Casper asked.
Augustino tilted his head in a typically Italian way. “The people I know are very good. I asked him that question. The passport is a British man about your age, and there is not digital data on the name. Only your picture will be with the name. The person who does this has a way into the British side. You will have the cleanest passport. Even if you went to England, they would see it as clean.”
“How long until I can get it?”
“At least a week, and you have to meet with someone who takes your picture.”
Cassie and Mike stared at each other and thought the same thing. In a few days, Pellaro could be a bed of snakes. Casper would have to live underground.
They told Augustino that they needed about 15 minutes to talk it over and headed to the little container house. When they got there, Cassie was thrilled to flop herself onto the bed. “I’m glad the a/c is on in here.”
Mike handed her cold water from his fridge.
She touched his hand. “I don’t care about the cost. But, what if we get spotted because we are hanging out here too long?”
“That’s why I should just leave, Cass. You can meet me in Morocco or anywhere. I can take the boat and contact you when I get there.”
“That means splitting up. No.” Her tone was firm, and he knew that the idea was non-negotiable. It was maybe six times that she’d rejected the suggestion, despite his annoying persistence that Cass should run away.
“How can you get that much money in cash here? That’s not simple.”
“Two days. A man like your landlord knows how to do it. Augie is not just a salvage dealer. He’s connected to the Sicilians and the Italian mob. That was the rumor, but I have no doubts now. It made sense to avoid the subject with you because of your potential creepiness about organized crime. We’ll get him the money, you get the passport, and then we run out of here. By plane or on a real ship.”
“My life is getting kind of weird,” he said as they walked across the dusty yard after sealing the deal.
She turned to him with a priceless look. “Just now, you’re discovering that your life’s journey has been a bit wacky, unique, and inconceivable?—honey, filmmakers are going to demand rights to your biography.”
“Hopefully, we’ll live long enough to sell it. There are a few good parts to my story.”
“Just a few? But I have to tell you, Mr. Casper, all this intrigue is making me a little hot.”
He winked at her. “Should I lower the air conditioner?”
“Hilarious,” she said while peeling off her shirt. “Maybe just lock the door and flick off the light instead.”
Claire verified that Larosa and Fettucini returned to Messina. A couple of days of meetings with the Italian navy, the coast guard, and the State Department helped get the paperwork filed.
Sympathy was rolling in from ev
ery direction. The widow Clemp played her part convincingly. And the media? They commiserated with her loss—the grieving wife of the multi-millionaire C.E.O. lost at sea.
It would take some time to collect on the insurance. That was a given that Claire was fully prepared to manage. The rollercoaster boxing match with the insurance investigator was going to be interesting. But in the end, they would pay, or they would face a lawsuit filed by Martin German's daughter—which meant they would pay.
Finally, after enduring the official (partial) inquiry, she eluded the press and met with Johnny. It was a risk, but they made it look like just a couple of strangers having a few random words.
After another day of news people outside the hotel, she answered a sufficient number of questions to satisfy them.
Johnny, meanwhile, was already deep into his search for the miracle fisherman. Calling the clinic didn’t yield much, despite the secretary’s surprisingly good English, but he did learn that three people left and headed north in a dark sedan. The driver was a fat guy with a mustache. There was a woman also, and the survivor concealed his head to prevent any pictures.
“The news media sucks around here,” he told Claire. “In America, they would know every damn thing about him, including his shoe size. The reporters let him disappear without a trace. And do you think the cops would want to know who, what, when, and where?”
“The fat guy.”
“Okay. Got it.”
Johnny blew up an image of the chubby driver—straight from the convenient press video. He made his way up the coast and also had a picture of the woman. She was a good-looking babe, he thought, and a couple of photos was plenty to go on. The process of finding them should only take a few days.
Claire’s hired killer reached into his pocket and wrapped his hand around a small folding knife. A firearm would be too risky, so it would have to be the blade—the old-fashioned way—messy but brutally effective. With any luck, the only victim would be the fisherman. A fine piece of ass like the woman in the photo should be free to procreate.
The ferry to Italy was going to pull out in two hours. A simple backpack with some extra clothes and latex gloves was enough—time to rock and roll.
Augustino knocked on the door of Casper’s cabin, tapping out S.O.S. in code.
Cassie opened the door a crack.
“Can I come in?”
She swung open the door. He entered and saw Mike sitting on a chair. The American had done wonders with the container home—considering what it used to look like—it was a palace.
“I got your passport.”
Mike jumped up like an excited puppy as Augustino handed it to him.
“Wow. It really looks like me. Check out my new name.” Cassie leaned over to see it. The damn thing looked exactly like hers. It even had an Italian entry stamp.
“Wow. Collin Jones. Sounds British,” she said.
Johnny called Claire with his burner phone. Pellaro was hot. It made him miserable to hang out in a crappy car with no a/c watching and waiting.
“I found the fat guy.”
“Where?”
“Pellaro. Take the ferry and a bus. Get out by the south beach stop, where you see a junkyard on your left.”
“Give me three hours.” Claire hung up.
Cassie stayed with Mike until the late afternoon. The two of them went over the plan repeatedly. The riskiest part was the trip to the airport. Reggio Calabria was only eight miles north of them. Local flights were available to Milan, then Milan to Barcelona. From there, the world was their oyster.
“Memorize the bank codes again,” Cass implored him.
He whispered back the bank codes and passwords for the bank in the Caymans. The big chunk of money was there.
“What about the bank in Belize?”
Mike spit out the codes and the passwords seamlessly.
“Mikey, I guess that’s why they tagged you to crunch numbers in Brooklyn.”
“I guess so. I once memorized pi to 150 digits for fun.”
“That’s impressive. Tons of fun in that; you’re a Vulcan, I’m sure. So, something as exciting as a football game must have caused you to wet yourself?”
“Okay, that’s enough ribbing the Casper.”
She looked at him seriously. “What’s the name of the bank in Belize?”
“Jefferson Town.”
“Good. How do you withdrawal money?”
“You go in and give them only the user code. Then they let you plug in the passwords in secret.”
“Name on the account?”
“CC Investments,” he answered.
“They’ve never met me. The bank has no clue as to who or what CC Investments is. The same goes for the Caymans—same protocol. If you ditch me and run away to the Caribbean, you can clean me out and find some other girl.”
“Don’t even joke about it. I’ve waited my whole life to find what you give me.” He squeezed Cassie’s hand and embraced her.
“I know what you mean. Alright. I’m going to walk over to the pub and get my stuff as we planned. Just what I can fit into a backpack. I will come back here at 6:30, and then we’ll use Augustino’s friend to take us. I’m not clear why he doesn’t want to take us himself, but I guess he has a reason.”
Mike looked stressed. “Our driver is armed. Straight up. If something happens on the way, the guy might be able to give us a chance. I gotta tell you something else. I offered Augie $10,000 for his trouble.”
“That was imbecilic.”
“Yep. He stared at me like he wanted to put me in timeout. Then gave me a five-minute lecture on how stupid an offer that was.”
“You Americans are brilliant and stupid simultaneously. Next time, ask me first.” She kissed him. “See you at 6:30.”
Claire and Johnny sat in the old rental car. He’d made a cash deal; it was that kind of place.
“You’ve got your serpent earrings on. Are you going to kill someone today?”
“If I’m lucky,” she sneered back at him, then said, “Look.”
Augustino and the woman emerged from the junkyard and headed in different directions.
“Who do we want?” Johnny asked.
“The woman. Forget about the fat guy.”
Cassie turned north on Via Bosco and began walking towards the pub. Her place had been closed for about a week, and she’d posted a sign that said “Renovating” in Italian to inform the public why they couldn’t get their favorite lunch.
It was a hot day. Her t-shirt was loose enough to keep from getting too sweaty and sticky.
“Just stay cool. Keep her in sight.” Claire fingered her wedding ring and spun it around.
“She just stopped in front of the pub there. It looks like she’s got a key to open it.”
“I have eyes, thank you,” Claire said pointedly. “Drive up past the place and park on the street just beyond that. Then get out. Go straight in, and I’ll survey. Thirty seconds and I’ll be right behind you.”
Johnny parked as instructed and handed over the car key.
“Grab her fast. Tie her to a chair; then I’ll be in.”
“I got duct tape. So if it’s all the same to you, I’ll tape her to the chair?”
Cassie made the mistake of leaving the door unlocked. She walked behind the bar and through the kitchen to unlock the backdoor. Mike had a front key, but if anything funny happened at the junkyard, she wanted him to be able to take cover by sneaking in through the kitchen.
The pub itself needed a little scrubbing, but there was no point in wasting time now that they were leaving. Cass went upstairs to the storeroom. She kept her passport, D.L., some cash, and not much else in the wall safe. Makeup and clothes could be purchased anywhere—her favorites would have to stay behind.
Her backpack was almost stuffed. Underwear and bras being critical. The British passport fit nicely in the front pocket. Her watch said 6:00 exactly.
“Now, what else should I smush in there?” She scanned the area. Back
in her tiny apartment a block away, there was nothing of importance. Another look in the safe. The picture of her parents caught her eye—Cassie snatched it and zipped it into the pack.
Just then, she heard a slight creak from the top step. It was her obsession to screw down all those planks and remove the noise, but that last one was an enigma.
“Mike?” She turned expectantly.
Immediately, a crushing hand grabbed her by the throat. No sound came from her, and she was choking. The man gripping her neck slammed her up against the boxes stacked along the wall. The world was turning upside down.
Johnny expertly released the pressure on the woman’s throat enough to allow her to breathe. His tight grip returned, as did her panic. The man pushed her down onto the wooden chair.
“If you scream, I will cut out your eyes.” Cassie saw a small blade in his other hand and froze. He eased up on her trachea and then stabbed a short section of the blade into her thigh. She was in agony, but he glared at her menacingly. “Do you want more of that?”
Cassie shook her head while wincing in pain.
Johnny put the knife onto the sofa while spinning gracefully behind her to tape her wrists to the chair.
“Shh. Don’t make me hurt you now.” She stopped struggling.
He taped Cassie’s ankles to the legs and then backed up. She looked up at him. He was trim but not tall. Bald and looked like someone who could be a sales clerk in an appliance store. The image floated around her head.
“Right about now, you think that someone will come and save you. It won’t happen. However, I need some answers to some questions. Do you understand?”
Too terrified to speak, Cassie nodded.
She heard a light footfall on the landing. A woman walked in, radiating cold contempt.
“Thank you; I’ll take it from here.” Johnny stepped back and sat on the sofa.
Cassie stared at the woman. She wore simple black pants and a button-down dark-green blouse. Her face was hard to describe but pretty. Shoulder-length brown hair, and then she saw the earrings. They were diamonds and emeralds, but mostly gold in the shape of a snake. The vision caused her to shudder.
Cold Dead Hands (A Mike Casper Thriller Book 1) Page 12